He Doesn't Think in Metaphors
by lyricalmadness
Summary: No, he is seventeen; he does not write love sonnets in his head or wax poetic about finding the other half of his soul.


**A/N:** I finally wrote something that is fluffy! This is set the morning after the epic kiss! I had so much fun writing this little thing but I did so in a hurry. Please disregard the cliched metaphors used and point out any mistake you might see. I did read over it but rather quickly. As always, I appreciate those who take the time to read! I hope you enjoy this half as much as I did writing it. Thanks!

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing - I swear!

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><p>It is one of those bright days that reflects and refracts against anything and everything but only succeeds in creating a sad juxtaposition between the barren infrastructure of late winter and the robin's egg sky that's sprinkled with candied clouds. It's the kind of day that promises warmth, a sense of revival but fails to deliver either as an icy wind rustles dead brittle leaves across the hard ground that is no longer padded by lush greenness. If he were a person whom thought in metaphors, he would find a humorous sort of irony in the fact that they were starting in a season that usually is representative of death; a static period of time that does not offer a hint of change or allows room for progress. But he is seventeen and does not spend time thinking in metaphors, in these analogies that would hover forlornly over something that he wants so badly that it eats away at his stomach lining and leaves him gasping, reeling in the possibilities. So he waits, gloved hands tucked into deep pockets of his wool coat, leaning against the red brick building that once had ivy crashing haphazardly over its surface. He doesn't notice the shriveled remains of said ivy that is locked in a seemingly endless hibernation and crunches painfully under the incessant press of his weight. No, he does not consider these things at all; instead, he thinks about how eyes can grow, consume, and then reflect the sky and the tension, the flexibility of skin as it shifts, warms, and gives under the gentle touch of his hands. Mostly, he thinks about how these endless eyes and soft skin and his ability to touch, to stare, to scrutinize these qualities, these possibilities is so much bigger than he is, than this cold March morning, which is no different than any other day caught in the grasp of winter, is. It is these thoughts that propel him away from the solid security of the building across the parking lot to that miscellaneous parking spot where the non-descript black SUV had just eased into.<p>

He smiles softly, somewhat hesitantly, as the slight boy slides gracefully out of the hulking vehicle, bag in hand, cheeks flushing as soon as the cold hits them. He rocks forward onto his toes and back again as his eyes scrape over the fair boy in front of him searching for any physical signs that change has occurred. There is none, of course; however, earthly gold-flecked eyes meet those that reflect the sky and he sees it – A vastness that encompasses the possibilities which are starting to blossom even in the dead of winter. Underneath the shimmering uncertainty, the slightly cloudy disbelief is a spark of hope. Now, if he was a boy whom thought in metaphors, he would realize that the boy, standing tall, in front of him does not only reflect the sky, he is the sky; soul soaring airily above everyone, a thin barrier to the universe, providing glaring heat, a stained glass of light and stars, atmospheric changes that brings storms and change. And if he really saw this metaphor through, the shorter boy, with his shifting green brown eyes that are always flecked with gold, would realize that he is the earth – a tangible broad-shoulder weight that sometimes shifts, cracks but revolves consistently allowing for change, for death, but always looking towards the horizon, towards renewal. He would realize if he thought in metaphors, that one could not exist without the other. But he does not think of these images as he concentrates on the flutter of elegant fingers as they right the grey scarf that he had thoughtlessly wrapped around his neck that morning while contemplating the staccato of gasps that punctuated the air in the empty common room yesterday afternoon.

"Hi," he whispers as those nervously flittering hands still on his shoulders.

"Hi," the taller boy beams back, smile as bright as the glare of the sun.

Black-gloved hand rises upon its own accord and traces the rosy flush that had settled high on sharp cheekbones. He smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners, pink lips stretching as teeth flash white, at the feeling of heat radiating through his hand into his spinal cord before making its way through his central nervous system in an electric shiver.

"Hi," he breaths out once more, expelled air puffing out in white clouds, as he shuffles a half-step forward successfully bracketing the other boy against the shiny surface of the door.

He doesn't even consider that he has been reduced to an ineloquent mess. A slender arm wraps around his neck as the other hand sneaks upwards and traps his hand against the warm, tender skin. The brunette head rotates just enough so that his lips, stung red by the cold, could press lightly to the spot where his lifeline would intersect the center of his palm. Another half-step is shifted forward unconsciously aware of the slamming of car doors and the loud yelps of other boys as they head into the warmth of the school. His hands find purchase on slight hips and he stretches upwards so that his forehead can graze the pale skin of the taller boy's forehead.

"Ready?" The taller boy asks, voice light and wispy, eyes bright as one eye-brow arches upwards.

"Yeah," he nods rocking backwards on his heels and meeting the earnest gaze of the other boy, "I am."

If he was a boy that considered subtext, considered the lack of specificity that the word offered then he would have realized that this simple question is much larger than their immediate future. If he was a person that willingly analyzed chosen diction for multiple meanings, he would have heard the unspoken questions. Are you sure you want this? Are you ready for this? Do you want this as much as I do? But he isn't that kind of boy; although, the answer would still be the same if he was. Instead, he spares another few moments staring at the boy in front of him before he steps back and slots their fingers together. They head into the warmth of the building, not talking, but entirely linked. He doesn't compare their entangle fingers to the immaculate fit of puzzle pieces nor does he equate the silence, the disappearance of reassuring heat with missing a piece of himself when they finally part to go to class. No, he is seventeen; he does not write love sonnets in his head or wax poetic about finding his other half of his soul. No, he simply breathes and counts down the minutes until he will see his boyfriend again.


End file.
